To whoever reads
this: I feel that I must apologize if what you find on these pieces of paper
appears to be nothing more than a collection of near-indecipherable words. I
can assure you that I have tried everything I can think of, and yet I cannot
keep my hands from trembling. This, however, is only a symptom of my much
greater problems.

I cannot eat, or
sleep, or even close my eyes for longer than the briefest of moments. I feel as
if I’m about to lose my mind, but I’m clear enough to realize that I have to
get this story off my chest, before it consumes whatever sanity I have left.
Unfortunately, the only recipient I can trust with a story as bizarre and
horrible as this are the same pieces of paper upon which these words are
written.

For officers of
the Eldritch City Police Department, no two days are alike. Even with this in
mind, yesterday morning would still single itself out as peculiar. As I entered
the precinct to begin my shift, I met a man who I realized was from out of
town. It was clear that he was uncomfortable since he was constantly scratching
his arm and shifting his gaze. It was as if he was trying to view the entire
room at once.

There are many
things that can be said of Eldritch City, but the one thing people always
remember is the air. It’s not that it has a particular smell, but it has a way
of sticking to your skin, like wet clothes on a rainy day. Us locals usually
say that it is due to the humidity that comes with being in a warm coastal
city, but humid air does not leave you with a feeling of being watched, or that
something terrible is about to happen. Given time, one learns to hide this
discomfort. People from out of town, however, usually haven’t learnt the knack.

The man
introduced himself as Deputy Swanson of the Heartbrook Sheriff’s office. Upon
learning my name, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It would seem I am in
luck,” he said. “It is in fact you that I have come here to see.”

Before
continuing the conversation, I invited Swanson back to my desk — I have yet to
earn my own office — and offered him a choice of coffee or tea, of which he
chose the latter. When we were both sitting comfortably, I asked what had
brought him all the way here from Heartbrook. To this he responded by handing
me a newspaper article, dating back nine years. The article was an interview
with a younger me regarding a murder case out by Mirkwood. I knew the article
well, not just because I was the subject of the interview, but also because the
case in question had been troubling me ever since I had been assigned to it.

Nine years
earlier, for their summer-break, the Phillips family had gone out to their
newly built cabin in Mirkwood, on the outskirts of the city. Only a day into
their vacation, Mr. Phillips and his daughter, Julia, were brutally murdered.
Their bodies had been mutilated to the point of being barely recognizable —
large portions of flesh were missing. It was almost as if something had fed on
them. The coroner couldn’t rule out an animal attack, but thought it unlikely since
the wounds were inconsistent with the bite of any species known to be living in
Mirkwood.

About the Author:

Robin was born on a cold winter night in Oslo, Norway, 1989. Growing up, he was always fond of telling stories, leading people to wonder when, not if, he would move on to writing stories of his own. Inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft, he wrote his first short story, 'Beneath', in 2015.